Red Station

FIFTY-THREE

Half an hour later, Mace was about as sober as he would ever be this side of tomorrow. It was pitch black outside and there was no traffic noise. Harry had hunted down the mains fuse-box and got the electricity fired up, turning on the kettle and making a pot of industrial strength coffee. The decor hadn’t improved with the lights on; it looked sad and neglected, out of date like a subject in a sepia photograph.

He’d so far poured a pint of the coffee down Mace’s throat, and the powerful brew seemed finally to be working. From initial unwillingness to see that the death of his nephew had been anything other than a mistake, Mace had finally reached some kind of plateau; he was beginning to realize that it must have been deliberate, to keep Gulliver permanently silenced.

‘Who set up Red Station?’ said Harry, refilling Mace’s mug. He was determined to keep going until the chief’s liquid level read ‘full’. ‘It must have been someone with clout; arranging the building and the funding, the Clones — all that. You don’t set up something like this using cash from the milk money.’ He sipped his own coffee. ‘Was it Paulton?’

‘He’s one of them.’ The answers seemed to be coming easier, the effects of increasing sobriety and the beginnings of cold reasoning. ‘But he wasn’t the one who really got it working. He wouldn’t have had the clout to get it past all the Whitehall watchdogs.’

‘So who? MI6? They’d have to be in on it, with their staff involved.’

Mace nodded, his breath whistling through his nose. His skin had taken on a greasy pallor, as though he was leaking chacha through his pores. ‘Bellingham. Try Sir Anthony Bellingham.’

Harry had heard the name before. One of the ghosts, usually spoken of in whispers. Bellingham was high up the tree in Vauxhall Cross. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s one of their ODs — Operational Directors. Access to funds, an organizer, a strategist. He can get whatever manpower he needs, no questions asked. He’s strictly old-school ruthless, all posh vowels and a black heart. You want to watch yourself with him, lad. He’s toxic. Cut your heart out and smile doing it.’

Harry breathed out. It was starting to gel. ‘And the Hit? Are they Bellingham’s people?’

‘Yes. The Clones are Paulton’s. The two groups stay compartmentalized. Never meet. Different jobs, you see. Different skill sets.’

He made them sound like corporate departments. ‘How do you mean?’

‘The Clones are a training wing. They ship ’em in, teach ’em how to track and monitor, give them a taste of a foreign turf, then move them on. It’s what the original idea was all about… what the explanation is if anyone starts asking too many questions.’

‘But you had direct contact with them.’

‘Yes. As far as the Clones were concerned, it was all part of the course. I fed them information about our movements, but only to save wasted trips.’

‘Really? But that day I ran the field test, they followed everyone.’

‘I didn’t tell them, that’s why.’

‘Why not? All it would have taken was a phone call.’

‘I…’ He stopped and pawed at the table top. ‘I never wanted this… this sell-out. Not particularly proud of myself, either. That day… I pretended to be sceptical when you suggested the test but I wanted to see if you could get one over on them.’ He shrugged miserably. ‘It was a small victory.’

‘What about the Hit? You have contact with them?’

‘No!’ Mace’s voice held the ring of truth. ‘Never. Nor would I want to. The Hit have… other uses.’

‘Go on.’

‘Black Ops. Wet work.’

Stanbridge had been telling the truth.

‘Who are their targets?’ Apart from Brasher and Jimmy Gulliver, he wanted to add. But he didn’t. He’d exhausted that route already.

‘Whoever they’re pointed at. Gang bosses, terrorists, assassins… whoever looks like jumping the fence and getting away with the chickens.’ He grunted. ‘I told you Bellingham’s old-school. He’s a solutions man… gets things done and doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t like untidy ends — you’d do well to remember that.’

Harry accepted the warning with a nod. There had always been rumours about teams operating on the grey fringes of the security community; shadowy groups of individuals apparently moving in the half-light of black operations, trained to kill when the call came, when all else had failed. It was canteen gossip wherever you went, mostly romantic chit-chat, a spawn of the Bond movies where licences to kill were dished out to hardened veterans when the need arose and deniability was paramount.

‘An alternative justice, is that what you’re saying? A bullet is cheaper and quieter than a trial — and more guaranteed?’

‘You got it.’ Mace sounded almost his old self. He didn’t look proud of it. But neither was he looking as if shame or guilt were going to overcome him any time soon. Too late for that. Angry, though; he looked that and more.

‘Risky, wasn’t it?’ Harry was referring to Red Station.

‘Maybe. Bellingham got involved because he got tired of having to answer Joint Intelligence Committee enquiries every time an operation went wrong or an agent turned bad. He wanted cleaner solutions.’ Mace sighed, shook his head. ‘You still think I dobbed in Jimmy?’

‘No.’ Harry couldn’t see it, not now. But if not Mace, then who — and how? They were supposed to be isolated, out of touch, Mace’s the only terminal linked to London.

It was Mace who provided the answer. ‘I knew Jimmy was driving back. Thought he was insane, personally. But I didn’t tell London immediately. Should have… but I didn’t. He needed time to think. I hoped he’d see sense on the way back and get out for good.’

‘What did you tell the others?’

‘That he’d been recalled. I had to tell London eventually, but I waited until I was sure he was on his way. Then I gave the job to someone else, using my terminal.’ His face took on a look of self-loathing. ‘I wasn’t feeling well. No excuse, but I couldn’t face going through all the palaver. I told them to send it among a whole load of useless chaff, saying he was on his way back. Big mistake, as it turns out. The worst.’

‘Who did you tell?’

‘The way I planned it, London might have missed it for a while, giving Jimmy more time to sort himself out. But it went by itself, didn’t it? A message like that stood out like tits on a duck.’

‘Who?’ Harry repeated.

‘The only other person who got close enough to find out what he was doing. Bloody Sixer.’ His face twisted with bitterness.

Suddenly Harry knew.

Clare Jardine.

‘You’re too late, you know,’ Mace continued, reading his expression. ‘She’s probably long gone. She’s a bright girl, I told you. She’ll have seen the writing on the wall days ago. She knew that even if she helped London by keeping an eye on the rest of you, they’d never trust her — not fully. She’ll be halfway to Timbuktu by now.’ His eyes went cold. ‘You’ll never find her. Why do you think she got close to thugs like Kostova and Nikolai? She needed help so she could disappear. Like I said, bright. A survivor.’

So Kostova had been telling the truth. But how had Mace found out? Maybe that was his passport to staying here when everyone else was baling out: feeding Kostova bits of information.

Christ on a bicycle, Harry thought tiredly, they’re all as bad as each other.

But he wasn’t interested in Jardine or Mace; not now.

He was after a bigger fish.

‘Where do I find Bellingham?’ he said quietly. ‘How can I get to him?’

Mace didn’t answer straight away. He picked up the bottle and went to fill his glass. His hand shook as he upended it. The bottle was empty. He tossed it across the room, where it shattered on the floor.

Then he told Harry what to do.